


stagecoach again

by muined



Category: The Death of Stalin (2017)
Genre: M/M, Negging, Porn with minimal Plot, Pre-Canon, ego whump, not a talent per se but certainly a willingness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 16:03:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18076538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muined/pseuds/muined
Summary: Malenkov has a rough go of things.





	stagecoach again

**Author's Note:**

> This is pretty tasteless; I’d appreciate it if you didn’t take it too seriously. It came about solely because I thought this movie deserved some really gross, weird slash—and because I think these two deserve each other. Characterizations and general tone drawn from the movie, not from history, for the most part. Malenkov being called Melanie (“Malanya” in Russian) by other Politburo members is stranger-than-fiction historical fact; the nickname appeared in _The Death of Stalin_ ’s script, but didn’t make it into the final movie, unfortunately. (I really, really recommend checking out the script and deleted scenes.)
> 
> Obviously this takes place prior to the events of the film. Uh, warning for vomit. Not particularly sexy vomit. And dubious consent (c’mon, it’s Beria), and self-delusion (c’mon, it’s Malenkov).

The Politburo, or half of it, is watching _Stagecoach_ again. Stalin had stayed long enough to remark for the eighteenth time on Malenkov’s resemblance to Buck the stage driver—Malenkov still doesn’t see it—and then had wandered out into the hall, leaving the four of them: Molotov, Malenkov, Khrushchev, Beria. Malenkov sits in the darkened screening room slumped halfway down in his chair, his hands behind his head and his eyelids at half-mast, overfull and nauseous from an excess of food and drink earlier but resting assured that the worst indignities of the evening are behind him. They’re approximately two-thirds through the movie, now, in Apache Wells. Molotov is asleep, and Beria engaged in his pastime of cinematic prognostication: John Wayne’s character, Ringo, kneels before the pretty blonde prostitute, Dallas, and offers her his hand and a home on his ranch.

“It’s got trees, grass, water,” Beria drawls, before Wayne can. “Pretty underwhelming. I wonder about that line.”

“What about it?” Malenkov asks. “I think it’s sweet.”

“Stalin left, you know, you don’t have to suck up. ‘A man could live there, and a woman.’” Beria’s John Wayne impression sounds much like his impression of Malenkov. “Really, is he a Neanderthal? Speaking of.” Malenkov hears him swat something, Khrushchev’s knee, and grunt: “Swap with me, Nicky.”

Khrushchev makes an apposite guttural sound: “Ugh. Why?”

“So I can discuss the intricacies of the plot of _Stagecoach_ with Comrade Malenkov. God knows I’m not getting any intellectual stimulation next to you.” Khrushchev swaps with him, reluctantly, and Beria takes his place on Malenkov’s right. “Don’t know why we didn’t start out this way,” Beria says, and then pinches Malenkov’s thigh. “My, how you’ve grown. Diet going well?”

Malenkov exhales through his teeth. “That. Has nothing to do with _Stagecoach_ ,” he retorts feebly. Beria has hit a nerve.

“No, I suppose not. I’m afraid I may’ve joined you under false pretenses, Georgy.”

Malenkov doesn’t have to wonder what he means by that: Beria’s left hand stays on his knee, and then slithers up his inner thigh. Onscreen, Doc Boone throws his growler of whiskey into the fire; Malenkov feels blood rush to his crotch, and when Beria traces a gyrus of his pantleg up to its origin his cock jumps as if saluting. He only narrowly manages to stay silent as wires or flylines behind his navel thrum with a current. “Something to share with the group, Georgy?” Beria whispers, but withdraws his hand for a few minutes. The damage is done: Malenkov remains half-hard. He tries to address this by focusing all his attention on the very unerotic _Stagecoach_. Comrade Ringo finds his Dallashka grinding coffee in the kitchen. Suddenly Malenkov’s left suspender strap is pulled down off of his shoulder; while he struggles to shimmy back into it, he feels Beria seize a handful of his left asscheek, having covertly snaked an arm around his back. He turns sharply to Beria but finds him absorbed in the movie, or pretending to be. Closer inspection reveals that he’s wearing a self-satisfied smile, incisors shining in the projector’s moonglow.

This happens in the back of Beria’s limo, too, this one-way give-and-take that reminds Malenkov of the way Beria prompts him with orders of business in Politburo meetings: presumptuous, always, but always comforting, too, like Stalin’s cadre of favorite films. A familiar dressage routine, high-stepping on Beria’s cue—receiving Beria’s advances. Malenkov doesn’t dislike this thing they do but he wishes Beria wouldn’t initiate it so near the others. Penumbral hands continue to fondle him, disembodied in the dark like a black-clad magician’s white gloves. Malenkov as a leotarded magician’s assistant; Beria sawing him in half. Beria extracting a rabbit from his wide-brimmed secret policeman’s hat.

“Make for the border and I’ll come for you,” Dallas promises. Beria mutters something about a kopek, rises, stretching, and pushes past dozing Molotov to exeunt into the hall.

It takes Malenkov a moment to process this turn of events. Beria had left him like this, the bastard, to stew in his own arousal—he has had no success in tamping it down by way of film appreciation. But Beria had left him, also, an open invitation. Malenkov feels Khrushchev’s eyes on him, Khrushchev’s judgment, wondering if he’ll get up and follow Beria. Well, where did fucking Khrushchev get off? Malenkov glares back at him as he stands.

“Georgy,” Khrushchev hisses. “Come on, really? Him?” He sounds equal parts disappointed and disgusted.

“What?”

“What do you possibly see there?” Khrushchev waves a hand around.

Malenkov struggles to justify himself. “He’s...witty. And he’s not, uh, bad-looking.” He knows as soon as it’s out of his mouth that this is inapplicable.

“I’m having trouble imagining anyone worse-looking, actually. Or just worse, in general. He already leads you around by the nose, Georgy. Aren’t you getting too old for this?”

Malenkov shushes him with a finger to his lips, and then with his other hand points to Molotov. “Quiet. I don’t need Rulesboy waking up to accuse me of factionalism, and—and I don’t need you to critique me, Nicky!”

Khrushchev sighs and turns back to the screen.

When Malenkov arrives in the bathroom, he finds Beria washing his hands. It occurs to him how clever an ass-covering strategy this is on Beria’s part: he’d have plausible deniability if Malenkov was really only here for the toilet. When Beria steps back from the sink, vest open and shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, Malenkov purses his lips to make clear that he knows exactly what Beria’s game is.

“Hullo, my sweet.” Beria smiles as he shakes his hands dry. “You don’t know where these’ve been. Oh, wait.” He affords his own joke an abrupt jackalish bark of laughter.

“The bathroom? It had to be the bathroom?” It’s dim, and their voices echo a little on the green tile, as does the sound of a dripping faucet.

“Only room in the dacha that isn’t bugged—hence the most conducive to buggering. What, are you accustomed to grander, ah, accommodations?”

“You started this,” Malenkov scolds. “Just fix it. Fix me.”

Beria pulls a familiar, irritating wry face. “Big job.”

“Come on, Lavrenti—look at me.”

“I’m looking.”

“Okay, well, be serious. Lavrenti Pavlovich. Why now? Why all the way now?”

Beria shrugs. " _Stagecoach_ on the eighteenth go-round is a bleak nadir of cinema, Georgy, and I needed cheering up. I had a yen for you, and if I can’t be free from want here in the bosom of the Motherland, as her loyalest servant, then I may as well defect.“

A spall of poetry comes to Malenkov: Everything I desire appears to me. He can’t remember the rest of the poem, nor place its author. “You’re drunk.”

Beria sneers, quotes _Stagecoach_ : “I’m happy, Gatewood. No, you of all people should know by now that I can hold my liquor. Stalin’s made sure of that. I’ll dance for him at the table, but I’m perfectly capable of—well, allow me to demonstrate.” He pats his own thigh with the back of his hand; his tone is affectionate, when he speaks. “Georgy Maximilianovich. Come here.”

Malenkov crosses the floor, wobble-legged like a newborn foal—suddenly conscious of the volume of alcohol he has imbibed, now sloshing around his big, ungainly body. Beria corrals him against the row of porcelain handsinks.

“Gentle,” Malenkov warns. “My back, you know.” His back, actually, is fine, it’s his stomach that requires delicacy. He’s wracked with nausea when prodded by the sink’s edge.

“Won’t be needing these,” Beria whispers, breath boozy, and decouples Malenkov’s glasses from where they’re hooked behind his ears, sets them in the basin of the sink to their left. He places his own pince-nez on top of them, to pornographic effect—the two sets of frames look for all the world to be mating. What would they produce, Malenkov wonders; monocles? He follows Soviet science closely, and knows that Lysenko hadn’t published any treatises on the subject. “I’ve a new ballistic missile to show you, Comrade Minister.”

“What?” Beria’s erection makes its presence known at the back seam of his pants. “Oh. Oh, because I was in charge of the missile program, in the war. That’s good. That’s very clever. Hey, did you bring a, uh, diaphragm?” Malenkov asks, as feels his suspender straps fall to dangle at his sides, and as he allows Beria’s cold, efficient hands to unbutton his fly.

“Technical term. Where’d you learn that? I thought we were supposed to ask for Rubber Product Number Two.” Beria produces one from his back pocket, with a flourish, as a conjurer would a string of handkerchiefs. “So, Miss Melanie wants a French letter. Pardon, Mademoiselle. Afraid I’m going to knock you up?”

“Uh, no,” Malenkov answers flatly. “It’s just. More sanitary.”

“Sex ed come under your purview, too, then? Would think you’d be more concerned with lubrication—oughtn’t be, though, I nicked cooking oil from the kitchen.”

“Hands in the till, huh.” Malenkov isn’t really listening. He hates that name, Melanie. Zhdanov was the one who got them all started. Zhdanov had died in 1948; Malenkov and Beria had walked in his funeral procession, arm in arm, barely bothering to disguise their elation. They’d hated Zhdanov together. They had joined forces against him. “Why do you guys still call me that?”

“What?” Beria asks, as he enters Malenkov.

Malenkov’s reply is a choked wail: “Melanie!”

“Mm. Can’t speak for any of the others, but I think you know full well why the name’d hold a certain appeal for me,” he says innocently, or as innocently as a person can, Malenkov supposes, while fucking the Deputy General Secretary of the party up the ass. “I don’t know, I think ‘Melanie’ has a dignity to it. Suits you. In a gown and shawl you’d be a grand old lady of Moscow—out for a night at the opera. Or would you prefer something younger?” His thrusting acquires an urgency. “Perhaps Mashenka?”

“None of that, please, Lavrenti. You promised.”

“You asked.” Beria seems to relish Malenkov’s distress. He gropes at Malenkov’s chest, and Malenkov is chagrined by the ease with which he’s able to latch on. Maybe he should consider supportive shaping underclothes of some kind—oh, but what Beria is doing to him through his shirt feels nice. Still, he can’t shake the feeling that he’s acting now for Beria as a girl-analogue, that this is happening only because he’s near-at-hand, convenient. Once, as the whole pack of them had left the Kremlin flanked by armed NKVD escorts, Beria’s limousine had pulled up to the curb to collect him; as Malenkov was ushered to the anterior door, gathering the long hem of his grey twill greatcoat like a skirt to climb inside, he’d heard Mikoyan behind him crack a joke to Bulganin about Beria’s kept woman. It had taken Malenkov several miles in the backseat, under Beria’s ministrations, to realize that Mikoyan had meant him.

“New perfume?” Beria had asked.

“Cologne,” Malenkov had corrected, suddenly sensitive. The scent was sickly-sweet, he’d realized, honeyish, all baby’s breath and hellebore. He makes the mistake, now, of looking up into the sink’s mirror in hopes of confirming his own masculinity. He looks peaked and unappealing, moribund even, a wax figure or the recipient of a botched embalming. He averts his eyes and stares instead at the wine stain on his collar, mourning his complexion.

"No, Georgy, I want to see you.” Beria says, and levels Malenkov’s downcast face. Malenkov smiles a little, in spite of himself. “Better. Now, are you sure this is new to you?”

“Who else would I have—uh, where would I have—”

“I don’t know. The revolution? You were young once. Oh, but I forget: weren’t the Whites in Orenburg?”

“Don’t go there.”

“Never in mixed company. Our secret. But really, Georgy, pure as the driven snow? As your favorite uniforms? You can’t expect me to believe that. However did you get where you are?”

“What?” Malenkov has no idea what Beria is talking about, but he doesn’t have the presence of mind to inquire further, jostled as he is between opposite poles of physical sensation. Must Beria talk during this? Malenkov resolves to raise this issue with him. Later.

“Social climbing, Madame Deputy.”

“What do you—oh, Jesus, Lavrenti. You know perfectly well that I got where I am through h-hard work. And scrupulous note-taking, which you’d do well to imi—” His train of thought is derailed when Beria’s thrusting ceases. “Imitate. Why’d you stop? You know you’re being ridiculous.”

“Oh, yes? Well, I can see it very clearly.” He starts up again, slowly at first. Each thrust drives Malenkov’s tender abdomen against the sink; this bodes ill. “Just the way you top off our glasses at dinner. All of us clamoring for you: ‘here, Georgy! Georgy!’ Mikoyan passes you to the old man.” He laughs in his wheezy fashion. “But you always circle back to me.”

“I do no such thing.” Another wash of sick overtakes him; he braces himself against the sink but then decides more drastic action is necessary. “Lavrenti, stop. Get out. Get out!” He tries to shoo Beria away with a hand waved behind his back.

“Are you kidding?” Beria asks, as he pulls out.

“No! I think I need the toilet. Not in the, not like that, I mean. The other end.” He feels his diaphragm convulse and hikes his pants up, totters to the nearest half-stall. His knees crack as he kneels on the tile; Beria laughs, and, automatically, Malenkov laughs, too, before he hacks two of the five courses he’d taken earlier into the toilet before him. His overindulgence: veal sausages with green plum sauce, black caviar. Blackcurrants and herring, both pickled. A high elegant aspic. _This_ isn’t new to Malenkov; he’s always had a poor constitution. He heaves again and this time some of it comes up through his nose. Lamb and eggplant in tomato, pirozhki with clotted cream, pitchlike ickle honey over sour white junket. More sweets than were advisable, always. It wasn’t as if he only ate what Stalin forced him to. Treacle, starchy bland pastry: Malenkov’s weaknesses.

“Now, didn’t having that here come in handy? Wasn’t that convenient? I think you owe the humble commode an apology,” Beria advises, playing innocent again. Malenkov, face still in the bowl, gives him the finger. “Eh, serves me right. Sorry about the overstimulation, Melanie, but it’s good to evacuate once in a while, I imagine, for a cleanse. If one doesn’t know when to stop.”

Malenkov can’t defend himself. When he’s finished expelling the brunt of it, he hears over his own last raspy, automatic heaves the sound of Mozart from down the hall where Stalin is listening to a record, the movie apparently forgotten. Malenkov puts the seat down and wilts over it, empty. “This is. This is so undignified. Don’t look at me,” he commands, his voice thin.

“Oh, I’ve seen worse,” Beria says softly, almost tenderly. “I rescind any earlier calumny, Georgy. The note-taking probably doesn’t hurt, but this is why Stalin likes you. You’re so helpless. He likes to feel needed, you know. As do I.” Malenkov looks up to find Beria leaning against the freestanding stall wall behind him and pleasuring himself—what to, exactly, Malenkov doesn’t want to consider.

“I take offense to—I take offense.” He takes offense mostly to how unperturbed Beria is by his suffering. He hadn’t even offered to hold back his hair.

“Go ahead, take it. I stand by my assessment: no willpower. Suggestible. Mikoyan once convinced you to classify ice cream as a mineral resource.”

Malenkov dabs at his mouth and chin with a ribbon of toilet paper. “And _I_ stand by that decision. It’s practical to group it there. Valuable asset to the Union.”

“He still has your ear, eh?”

“Are you jealous?” Malenkov counters.

“Not at all. In your service, like the others.”

“Why? Why do you like me?”

“Your delicate wrists,” Beria deflects—it’s probably a deflection, Malenkov decides. “Those ridiculous peasant collars on everything you own. They don’t fool anyone, by the way.” He feels Beria’s hand on his head; he feels Beria’s hand turn his head counterclockwise and then lift his chin so it’s level with Beria’s prick. He’s discarded the condom. “Finish the job, Georgy?”

“That’s disgusting,” Malenkov mumbles, but he’s already pivoted on his knees to follow Beria’s diktat. He feels much improved, physically, though still off-balance, and even as he resents the jab at his strictly Proletarian tailoring, Malenkov is reassured by Beria's specificity. _Malenkov’s_ wrists, collars. Beria had said he'd had a yen for _him_ , specifically, and Beria's attention was, like uranium, an ore worth monopolizing. His little put-downs were the product of Georgian wine and pepper vodka, immaterial. Malenkov dismisses them, strikes them from his mind as he would anything Beria advised him was a false narrative.

“I’ve seen you lick a plate clean before,” Beria quips, getting the last word in. Malenkov’s mouth and throat burn; he takes Beria’s head and then his shaft. “That’s it. Always so conscientious. Huh, that’s novel,” Beria says, of his mouth’s post-emetic heat, Malenkov assumes, and the acrid, stinging spew-leavings still clinging to his soft palate. Their respective heights are such that Malenkov doesn’t have to kneel so much as sit on his ankles. He clings to Beria’s pantleg for purchase, and when he notices Beria’s scarabshell-black shoe protruding out from under the hem he begins to hump the toebox, desperate for any meager relief (though careful to avoid the knife he knows is strapped to Beria’s ankle). Beria inclines his foot helpfully, steepening the angle Malenkov is trying to rut against. “Like a barnyard animal,” Beria notes, approvingly. His palm remains on Malenkov’s head. Malenkov likes that; a warmth spreads from his scalp down the back of his neck. When Beria tries to pull his hand away, Malenkov finds his wrist and guides it back, then puppets it to make Beria pat him.

“Whah kinh?” Malenkov asks as best he can around Beria’s dick. He isn’t sure as he does so whether there’s an animal Beria could name that would wound him.

“Of animal? Cow, maybe. Those eyelashes.”

This is acceptable to Malenkov. He reaches an internal resolution: it doesn’t matter what Beria sees him as, in this moment—convenience, analogue or novelty. Beria is his loyal ally, he just happens also to be a man of appetites. Malenkov understands this; he has appetites of his own. If Stalin was the wolf that had raised him, Beria was the strange savage twin with whom he’d been raised. They’d cut their teeth together on the Bomb, on the Leningrad set, Zhdanov’s coterie. And like Rome’s twin founders the two of them served a higher purpose. Here, now, they were just satisfying one another’s baser appetites in a neat coupled reaction. The efficiency of it soothes Malenkov, an engineer by education. Mandelstam—Osip Mandelstam had written that poem. The line he’d come up with earlier had been preceded in its stanza by two others: _Come back to me, I'm frightened without you. Never had you such power over me as now_. They had put Mandelstam away in 1938 for counter-revolutionary activity.

He hears Beria sigh. “Look, you’re a fine fuck, Georgy, but you fellate like a corpse.” Malenkov makes a stifled protest, which Beria interprets, creatively: “‘I’d know,’ would I? Ha.”

Malenkov wouldn’t have made that joke; he didn’t want to think about that, nor anything upsetting. At Stalin’s dinner table all darker avenues of conversation were _verboten_ , in an effort to keep their late evenings pleasant and non-lethal for all involved. Malenkov couldn’t tell him so, but he wished Beria would try to keep things light. Anyway, he had been, indeed, mostly just suckling purblindly and unpurposefully at Beria’s cock, tasting nothing but his own bile, his focus sapped by the puzzle of bringing himself off without use of his hands. He tries to add more variety to his tonguework, but Beria stops him:

“No, don’t. Let’s use this to our advantage. Just relax, Georgy, I’ll handle it. Here, put your arms up—there we are. Remedy, Melanie.” Malenkov’s arms clasped thus around the small of his back, Beria begins thrusting as he had earlier, gently at first but with increasing force, until what he is doing can be described only as fucking Malenkov’s mouth, Malenkov backed against the tile wall and accepting each thrust with perfect passivity. “Something charming about the way you take it,” Beria hisses through grit teeth, gratified. Malenkov would be panting were he not able to breathe solely through his nose; as such he sucks in desperate, foul, arrhythmic nasal breaths. Even so he grows light-headed. “Poor maladroit, malleable Malenkov, my malady. My affliction.” His brow is pressed up against the underhang of Beria’s potbelly; klaxon reds flash behind his closed eyes, as through a black theater. His eyes water, too, and his velum feels macerated. It’s the same as it always is: Beria gives, he takes, the two of them in lockstep. This thought delivers him—this thought, the rhythmic sawing, and one well-timed sharp yank at his hair.

“That’s enough,” Malenkov hears Beria say, as if from a great distance, and though he doesn’t understand what’s going on he complies: disengages and sags to his side, one elbow to the tile as his cock spasms out, soiling his pants. Involuntarily he rubs his thighs together, like a priapic cricket. His knees and ankles ring with dull pain. Because he hasn’t yet opened his eyes again, Malenkov feels it on his face before he sees it: Beria had pulled out only so he could better douse Malenkov’s face in cum. Malenkov, snorting and blinking, hears Mikoyan’s voice, from earlier in the day: “Dirty gorodki. One point for the face, two for the mouth.” Beria was, apparently, suggestible also.

Malenkov squirms out of range, sputters: “What was that for?”

“I thought it’d be funny, and, huh, what d’you know—it was.” After rebuttoning his own trousers, Beria extends a hand to help Malenkov up, and once he’s standing hands him his glasses. “Look, no foul: I didn’t even get any on your shirt. Ah. Cute like that,” he remarks, indicating Malenkov’s hair.

Malenkov frowns. “Like what?” He looks to the mirror on the far wall and sees that his bangs are plastered back off of his forehead by sweat; below that, lacquerous tracks of cum criss-cross his face, rivulets of it mingling with vomit down over his less-than-ideal chin. He feels his cock shudder. He’s grimacing and blushing, both, as he turns back to Beria.

Beria smiles and puts a fat, sticky hand on Malenkov’s head one final time, musses his hair so that it falls back down over his brow again. “You have, I think, the most hair of any of us. Why don’t you do anything with it? Mmh, that weird little mouth of yours, Georgy, looks just like an upside-down checkmark when you frown like that—yes, now even more so. That’s in addition to being a pretty adequate cocksheath. Two things it’s got going.”

At a loss for how to respond to this baffling non-compliment, Malenkov settles for a non-question: “We’re not going to talk about this. With the others,” he clarifies, warily.

“What, d’you mean—you’re asking whether I plan on proposing a toast to my conquest of you? No, Georgy. Aren’t I always discrete?” Malenkov must look unconvinced, because Beria continues, as he retrieves his pince-nez from the sink basin: “Just another of our closed-doors understandings. Orenburg. Go on, wash up. I’ll leave you to it; we’d best stagger our reappearances.”

While washing his face, and spitting into the sink in a futile effort to clear his sinuses of stomach acid, Malenkov hears the door swing open and shut. When he joins Khrushchev and Molotov again in time for the movie’s end titles, Beria is there in his original seat, smug and nonchalant, waiting for him.

Stalin pops in again, and so they all burst into spontaneous applause for the monochrome clouds still hanging, stationary, onscreen. “Right, anyone for a midnight snack, then?” Stalin asks. All of them are.

 

Malenkov wakes the next morning, mildly hungover, to a stern triad of knocks on his apartment door. He fumbles for his glasses from his bedside table, tucks them into his pajama pocket, and stumbles to the foyer, where he unlocks and opens the door to see, blurrily, an NKVD officer. Malenkov feels the blood drain from his face. He remembers the events of the previous night, through a film. It had been a trap. Beria had led him to bourgeois immorality and now he was going to be arrested for it. Khrushchev’s pitying frown. Malenkov’s mouth gapes open; instinctively he proffers his wrists for cuffs.

The NKVD man isn’t interested. He holds up a conical white paper package—he’d been holding it the whole time, but Malenkov hadn’t noticed, his mind preoccupied and his glasses still in his pocket. “From Comrade Beria,” the officer prompts him.

Malenkov accepts the package. “I-is that all?” he stammers. The officer nods. Malenkov’s relief at learning that he isn’t to be hauled to the gulag after all soon wanes. There’s a familiar drop of his stomach that accompanies the too-frequent understanding that he is to be the butt of a joke: death knell, funereal dirge. Threnody. Malenkov knows what the package contains before he opens it, but he rips it open anyway, still standing on the threshold of his apartment as the guard takes his leave off down the hall to the stairwell.

A bouquet.

**Author's Note:**

> Like I said, tasteless. I included Mandelstam ( _Stone_ , Poem 122, the Brown/Merwin translation) because reportedly Malenkov liked his poetry; oof. Come talk to me (muinedmail@gmail.com) about this movie/this pairing! I want to find and befriend all other weirdos who like either. Also, man, it’s a travesty that there isn’t any Zhukov/Khrushchev here already.


End file.
